“You know,” Michael said, “I’ve got a long drive tomorrow and I’ve got to leave early. So, as good as this is, I’ve got to get to bed.”
“That’s okay, Michael,” Harley stood, put his napkin on the table. “I’ll show you where you’re bedding down.”
“If you’ll all excuse me,” Michael said. “Thanks for dinner, Sumiko. It was really good.”
“Good night, Michael,” Sumiko said.
“It was a pleasure meeting you two,” he said to the other guests.
“Same here,” Simon said, standing and shaking Michael’s hand.
“Maybe I’ll see you all in the morning,” Michael said.
Eddie gave him one last ogle before he followed Harley, who was saying, “I already grabbed your bag.” They walked down the hallway, past the bathroom of monochrome torture and into a small den.
“I forgot Eddie and Simon were staying over, so we’ve got to put you on this sofa,” Harley said.
“Fine with me.” Michael looked around the room, at the short couch on which he would be sleeping, at the blond wood paneling, at the green carpet.
“This is the room we haven’t done yet,” Harley said, apologetically. “The television works if you want to use it.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, we’re at the end of the hall if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
Harley left Michael and closed the door. Michael sat on the sofa, ran his hand across the scratchy fabric, and leaned his head back.
The far-off chatter and laughter interspersed with an occasional booming “great” was gone. Michael assumed that they had all gone to bed. He uncoiled himself from the sofa and went to the door to listen. Nothing. He had to relieve himself, but he refused to go back to that white bathroom. Although he believed that even without knowing the layout well enough he might do all right in the dark, the room just flat out scared him; his head hurt simply considering it; his stomach tightened into a knot, which, given his present condition, was an unfortunate circumstance. He felt irrational, but hell, being irrational was the least of his worries. Being irrational didn’t hurt and didn’t poke like pins into the backs of his eyeballs. No, he couldn’t go in there. At the front door, however, he was shocked to find that, even though this was “Laramie, not Denver,” there was an alarm system. A green light flashed, but Michael didn’t know what it meant, whether it was armed or off. He dared not open the door for fear of waking the whole house and maybe summoning every deputy in the territory — cowboys bored shitless at coffee shops just waiting to speed over and point their hair-trigger pistols at him while he squatted next to the holly bush.
He went back and stood in the hallway outside the bathroom. He felt the already piercing pain in his head and was truly afraid of what the light in that room would do to him. He would open the door, flip the switch, and his brain would rupture. If only the room had a window, then at least there might be a small amount of moonlight from outside. He couldn’t bring himself to use the room with the door open, because of the obvious potential for interruption and embarrassment. He hadn’t liked the feeling he’d gotten from Eddie at dinner, the way she licked her lips even when she wasn’t licking her lips, so he was particularly sensitive to the possibility of her finding him in a compromising position. Down at the end of the corridor was the door to Harley and Sumiko’s room and in there was another bathroom. It occurred to him that there might be a flashlight in the kitchen. He believed that everyone had one of those messy drawers with rubber bands, pliers, empty matchbooks, and maybe, just maybe a flashlight. He went into the kitchen and prowled about using the moon through the windows, finding the flatware and a drawer full of corkscrews, and finally their equivalent to his junk drawer, but it seemed frighteningly neat and was, after all, without a flashlight. As sometimes happens when one is engaged to the point of distraction, the urge to go suddenly disappeared. Michael decided to return to his room, close his eyes, and consider his predicament. He went back and put himself on the sofa only to find a leg already stretched across it. He jumped up and hit the switch for the overhead fixture. It was Eddie.
“What are you doing in here?” Michael asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. She was wearing a gown made of flannel.
“You shouldn’t be in here. What if Simon wakes up? What if he were to come in here? What would he say seeing you sitting there like that?”
“Who cares what Simon says?”
“Well, Simon didn’t say you could come in here.” Michael felt silly saying that. “Is that really his name?”
Eddie nodded, sitting up and leaning toward him. “Sumiko said you tried to kill yourself.”
“What?”
“She said you ate paint.” Eddie swallowed. “I love the passion of that.”
“I see.” He walked over and sat beside her on the sofa. “I did eat paint, but I didn’t try to kill myself. I’m just a dumb shit. Now, I don’t know what kind of romantic picture you’ve concocted of me, nor what kind of game you’ve conjured up for us to play, but I’m not going to be a part of it.”
“You haven’t heard what I have in mind,” she said.
“I don’t need to hear it.” Michael’s brains pushed at the walls of his cranium. “I really think you should go on back to your room, okay?”
“A kiss first.”
“No.”
“Just one,” she said, pouting. “I’m good at it.”
“I’m sure.” Michael sighed. “Please?”
Eddie stood and slinked across the room toward the door, trying to achieve a seductive look in her flannel nightshirt. “I’m going,” she said.
Michael looked at her feet. They were enormous.
“Good night, Michael.”
When she was gone and his door was closed, he shut his eyes and pushed out a breath. His stomach began to hurt and he felt pressure again to find a toilet. There was no putting it off this time; he’d have to suffer the consequences of using the white room. He went out into the hall only to find the door closed and a stripe of light at the threshold. Eddie was in there doing god-knew-what and he didn’t dare knock and make it look as if he were coming after her. His stomach did a flip. He was in pain and in a hurry.
He made his way down the hall to his hosts’ bedroom door. He turned the knob slowly and pushed into the room. He could hear breathing. The darkness of his room and the hallway had helped his eyes adjust and with his pupils all dilated he was able to see around the bedroom by the light from outside. He saw what must have been the bathroom door and treaded softly toward it. About halfway across the room, he realized that the breathing he was hearing sounded a certain way. He then heard Sumiko’s small voice cooing, “Oh, my big steel baby,” and Michael thought he was going to die. He got into the bathroom and felt around on the wall for the light switch, then closed the door before throwing it. Pain detonated in his head like a blasting cap and the heat of it ripped through his eyes. This room turned out to be just as bright white as the other one. He was reeling and losing his balance, but he had a reason for being there and he managed to drop his trousers and sit on the toilet, covering his eyes with his hands.
Finished, Michael automatically reached back and flushed and immediately cringed at the subsequent noise. The tank filled and he listened at the door, learning that Harley and Sumiko hadn’t heard the plumbing because of their involvement. He tried not to focus on their sounds, but couldn’t help hearing them since his headaches always heightened his auditory capacity. He switched off the light, sat on the floor, and realized that when they were done, one of them would probably be headed his way.